


A Most Dangerous Game

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Crossover, Gen, Murder, Mystery, No Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a British government official is brutally murdered, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes and faithful blogger John Watson are forced to work together with Special Agent Will Graham to discover the culprit behind the killings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It must have been invigorating.

“Are you listening to me?”

The winds, relentless and wrathful, were biting at his reddened ears. The blood was partially dry, though the thicker pools were shimmering in the chilly morning sunlight down by the seaside. The arms were twisted and mangled – they had struggled against him.

“Will?”

It was in vain.

“Will!”

The person’s hands were missing. They were twisted off by hand, though the killer was wearing gloves. It was done with the victim fully conscious, most likely screaming in unbridled agony. Oh yes, he had wanted this person to hurt. He had wanted them to scream, for their vocal cords to vibrate with terror. But there was more.

“Dammit Will, look at me!”

This was so much more than an act of sadism. This was an act of war. Against who, it did not matter, or at least not to him. Was it betrayal, venomous and well-orchestrated? Or was this a message, a promise for more bodies to fall?

Here it was muddy and clouded. He couldn’t see the full picture. And yet -

And yet this was not his design. This was not his artwork, even though he would gladly take the credit. There was subtle context woven within the concept, giddy and flirtatious.

_Let’s play, honey._

“Will!” Crawford barked, snapping the Special Agent out of his stupor. When had he lied down on the beaches, anyway? Will realized that he was staring directly up towards his superior, whose face was just barely containing the rage threatening to boil over.

He looked like a beast.

Shaking his head, Will Graham sat up and tried to reorient himself back into the present. He didn’t normally wander from the crime scene, but then again, the cops had tampered with his – the – design before he arrived. It was completely unfair to expect Will to see the full picture if thoughtless, bumbling amateurs messed with his – the – canvas.

“You said something.” He did? He couldn’t remember.

Will cleared his throat, the noise thundering in his suddenly pounding skull. His head was aching, and the idea of forming words sounded severely unappetizing.

Jack didn’t seem to appreciate the proposal of such silence, however.

“The hands were… twisted off. By the killer,” Will said with a sigh and a wince, “The victim was, well…”

Crawford inclined his head, eyes savoring every word like a starving man. In some form, he was starving for information. Jack was constantly hungry, constantly consuming, constantly eating away at Will’s mind in ways he could only barely comprehend.

“Alive,” Will nodded with finality. “He screamed. A lot.”

Crawford waited for more. Will waited for his head to stop aching. It seemed like he was going to lose both battles today.

“Why did he cut the hands off?” Jack conceded at last.

“Twisted.” Will corrected. “He… twisted the hands off.”

Crawford didn’t look very amused. It was the small victories that Will reveled in.

“Why did our killer,” stress went on the _our,_ an incredibly rude and unsubtle reminder of the fact that this was an effort on both of their parts. Will considered pushing back harder. “Twist off this poor man’s hands?”

“He wasn’t poor, either,” Will commented, only half concerned over the prospect of stepping on Jack’s toes too hard. “Just… unlucky.”

“Goddammit!” Crawford snapped. Pity, Will figured he could have lasted much longer. “Why is this man sitting here with his hands missing?”

“It’s a warning,” Will spat back, his words coming out sharper and raspier than intended. His mind was reeling; his body was thrumming in pain. He really needed some aspirin soon.

“A warning?” Jack looked at Will, questioning his intuition again.

“Or a message,” he amended, “That he’s untouchable.”

“The victim’s untouchable?” Crawford asked incredulously. He was being incredibly hard-headed and stubborn today. Will considered the possibility that he probably deserved it.

“Yeah, the guy with the missing hands is definitely the untouchable one.” Now Will was just asking for it.

“So the killer’s untouchable?” Crawford refused to take the bait.

“Yes,” Will agreed, glad that the conversation was over with. “Or…”

Shit. He shouldn’t have let that doubt slide, that slice of information slip out of his scrambled mouth. Now he’d have to continue talking, if the curiosity in Jack’s eyes held any indication. Why couldn’t he just go home?

“Or there’s someone else behind this,” the Special Agent said at last.

“What do you mean someone else?” Crawford’s hostility was instantly gone, replaced with a quiet listening ear. This was what he was after all along – the defining edges of the murderer that Will was able to glimpse.

“I’m not sure,” Will said, surprised at his honesty. He really didn’t know.

“But what do you think?” Oh, Jack was always the clever one. There was a reason he was a leader in the FBI, naturally fit for the role of coaxing information out of others and asking the right questions.

Will couldn’t find the motivation to be jealous.

“I think that this wasn’t his… design.” Will shook his head, reviewing the mass of emotions he had been soaked with prior. “He was given the task and allowed to add his own personal flair, but this? This wasn’t his idea, but a commission.”

“Are you thinking he was hired?” Jack scrunched his eyebrows, pointing towards the victim, “This man was important?”

“It isn’t about the man, Jack!” Will immediately snarled back, an incredible surge of frustration that shocked everyone in the near vicinity.

“It was about the message, but it got lost in translation!” Will was upset about something… but what? What could Will Graham, Special Agent of the FBI, feel concerned about?

No. This was emotional residue from the killer, but he couldn’t place the reason why it had cropped up now.

“Lost in translation?” Jack carefully asked, warily eyeing Will like he was a wild animal about to snap. Or a fragile teacup about to shatter, Will supposed with a smirk.

Dr. Lecter’s phrase was most apt.

“I’m not sure, I’m really not,” _Apologizing already, Will?_ The sudden rush of energy left just as quickly as it came, leaving the Special Agent even more exhausted and in pain. He raised his hand to rub incessantly at his forehead, bitterly clawing at the loose curls.

He might as well be the bearer of bad news.

“But I think… it’s the start of something.” Will rolled the words in his mouth, tasting them, cataloguing their weight and relation towards the newfound case, “A beginning.”

“A beginning?” Jack reiterated as horror finally dawned on him. He now saw the same implication that Will did, able to stare directly onward as it at last reared its ugly head.

“This might be the first casualty,” Will said, his mind growing heavy and distant. “But this is an invitation to play.” Will released an unsteady, shaky sigh. There was no point in lying to Jack, now.

“And the game has only just begun.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get a new case.

A knock announced itself at the door of 221B Baker Street. Said door promptly swung open to reveal a tall man tapping his bundled umbrella impatiently by his shined, black shoes. Under his right arm lied a thick manila portfolio, the stark words CONFIDENTIAL emblazoned brightly on the cover.

Mycroft had gained weight. Sherlock would estimate around a quarter of a stone, possibly a bit more if he considered eating another lavish dinner with the intended recipient he no doubt was trying to weasel approval out of, perhaps in order to be put in charge of a government proposal plan or an incentive to increase security and control under his fingertips. Politics were ever so pointless and dull; Sherlock could care less what his manipulative pain of a brother did with his spare time. But stopping by his dear brother’s flat with a case file? It was stupidly noticeable that this dinner was dependable on whether or not Mycroft was successful at corralling his younger brother into an obvious solicitation to work on yet another case that will no doubt dull every facet of the consulting detective’s mind.

“No,” was all Sherlock said, giving his brother a final once-over before returning to pluck at his violin as he curled deeper into the sofa. He was quite comfortable in this position, although Mycroft would obviously not accept the possibility that Sherlock had no desire to entertain the thought of working for him.

Sherlock blinked. Mycroft was still standing in the doorway, silently waiting to be invited in. How utterly tedious.

“John! The door!” Sherlock said with a yell, hoping his blogger was still somewhere in the flat. The less he had to converse with his brother, the better.

Sure enough, a stomping – the bedroom, most likely putting away clothes, he did say something about laundry, or was that a week ago – came thundering from the other end of the flat, signature of a rather perturbed John Watson. Was he upset over being beckoned for? Why did John have to be so overemotional? It was unnecessarily complicated. Then again, this was a worthless train of thought, figuring out the sentimentality of his military doctor.

Sherlock blinked again. John was now standing an arm’s reach away, staring at Mycroft, assessing the situation at a painfully slow pace. His posture spoke of annoyance at being summoned, but it was immediately redirected to the elder brother, a much easier and far more socially acceptable target. Sherlock had never been more grateful of their mutual dislike of the meddling bastard.

“Is there a reason why you’re here?” Good god, did John not actually have eyes? Of course Mycroft is here with an utterly boring case in order to achieve a goal for his own nefarious ends. Wasn’t it obvious?

“What do you think, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft coolly asked. He was all smiles and too-whitened teeth. Sherlock suppressed a wild smirk. John wasn’t going to take that from the man.

“I’m… not guessing a social visit?” John quipped back sarcastically, his smile equal parts thin and dangerous. So he had noticed the case file in his arm? At least his good doctor wasn’t as completely incompetent as the hooligans that crowded around Lestrade. Sherlock wondered if John knew about the dinner.

Mycroft, realizing that he was not going to be simply ushered inside, took the initiative and strolled in instead. Sherlock mildly wondered if John would attempt to block Mycroft. His brother stepped in carefully, cold and detached and serious. Sherlock craned his neck, accepting the possibility that this was about far more than just a dinner. Although reluctant to admit it, Sherlock began to wonder just what was in that case file and why it had brought Mycroft to his door. Was it a superior wanting something to be done about a situation? It was connected to the British government, that much was certain. If it was connected to the government, however, then why was it being made Sherlock’s problem? Why a single death would be –

“Oh,” came Sherlock’s breathy reply. “How many?”

John looked completely bewildered, as usual. Mycroft only narrowed his eyes imperceptibly with the slightest edge of contempt fraying at the seams.

“Three,” Mycroft said with ease. “Though we are expecting an indeterminable amount more.”

A serial killer killing British government officials? The consulting detective pondered the legitimacy. After all, he would have heard about it through John if this was televised on the news. Unless…

“I’m sorry, what?” John asked, every word laced with confusion. “Are we talking about murders?”

Hidden from the public? Possible, but unlikely. Mycroft would have brought him to the information if he considered it as sensitive in order to maximize confidentiality. So it was not hidden, but not easily accessible, either. Sherlock continued to pluck at his violin, mulling over the possibilities of this case.

Perhaps these government officials were being killed in other countries? But if important political figures were being assassinated, that would definitely receive coverage and John would have definitely made the connection. So either retired government officials or officials with particularly small roles, then, without a link to connect them other than their untimely ends. Interesting.

So his initial deduction had been correct. Mycroft had wanted Sherlock to figure out why they were being killed and - hopefully - put an end to it. It would look good to his colleagues, no doubt, and expand his prestige and repertoire. Definitely strategic, though the detective expected nothing less from his brother.

The case might prove interesting, but Sherlock did not want to give into his brother so easily. After all, he was not something to be used like a tool in Mycroft’s arsenal.

“No, Mycroft,” Sherlock reiterated, his eyes snapping up to coldly meet his brother’s. “I will not help you.”

“You will be working with the FBI,” Mycroft smoothly continued, seeing through Sherlock’s resistance like the façade that it was.

“I don’t work well with others,” Sherlock countered, already mentally preparing himself for the dull and abrasive Americans that he no doubt will constantly come into contact with. It would definitely be irritating to deal with senseless idiots that make pointless assumptions about him, but there would be no getting around them.

“I’m sorry, Mycroft,” John began, no doubt tired of staying silent and out of the loop, “But I’m afraid it is getting quite late. Why don’t you hand us the file and we’ll look it over?”

Was it truly late, or was John simply being facetious? Regardless, a smirk bloomed on the detective’s features. Sherlock _was_ getting rather tired of Mycroft’s presence, and would like to be left alone to think. After handing over the folder to John, Mycroft turned to stride out of the apartment. It seemed he couldn’t resist having the last word. Not that it mattered to Sherlock – this case could prove to be deliciously complex.

“You leave tomorrow morning,” Mycroft stated before trailing down the stairs and out of sight. It was unfortunate he was not out of mind, as well.

“All three had worked for the British government,” John began as he flipped through the file, drawing connections and conclusions with interest. “All were found murdered in the state of Maryland, although they did not all live there.”

The location was obviously significant; it was a piece of the puzzle floating in empty space.

“The first victim lived in London, was visiting New York City, disappeared a week before turning up dead on a beach,” John continued. “Second and third lived in Virginia and Pennsylvania, both disappeared for also a week before showing up dead. One was in an abandoned parking lot, the other propped up against a... public library.”

If Sherlock could see the bodies, he could determine whether they were being held in a certain place before their deaths. Now he'd have to travel overseas.

“All were viciously stabbed to death with both of their hands removed,” John concluded before setting the folder on the table. “Sherlock, you cannot be considering turning this case away?”

Sherlock looked at John with a grin, already anticipating the chase for this mysterious maniac. “Pack your bags.”

Mycroft's dinner would go quite well.


End file.
